One of Those Nights
by moviemom44
Summary: "This just became one of those nights"...ROGAN PWP  Honestly, it's mostly just P


Disclaimer: I own nothing. But you already knew that.

Author's Note: I wrote the bulk of this several months ago, intending it to be part of a much larger story, but the 'larger story' fell victim to my exceptionally lengthy and inordinately painful bout of Writer's Block. However, after re-reading it this afternoon, I decided that with a few adjustments it might just hold up on its own. So, here is a bit of PWP (well, actually just P when you get right down to it) from Logan's POV that I'm posting as an act of protest against the vicious WB in the hope that this will pry open the floodgates once and for all and I can finally finish my two WIPs. Keep your fingers crossed...Here we go...

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**One of Those Nights**

**by**

**Moviemom44  
**

I take myself in hand, stroking to create the friction that is just barely necessary as just the thought of pushing into Marie's snug warmth already has my cock stretching once again to new lengths.

My healing factor recharges me faster than the average male, but even I am delightfully surprised at how short the turnaround time has been tonight—less than five minutes since she sucked me to an orgasm so devastating I actually wept. If fellatio were an Olympic event, my baby would win the gold tongue – uh, medal – gold medal – every damn year.

As expert as her mouth is, though, I can't remember ever looking forward to being inside a woman like I do with Marie, and I know that even more than my mutation, it's the anticipation of invading her exquisite body that has aroused me again so quickly - almost to the point of pain. Nothing and no one compares to the pure ecstasy it is to feel _her_ inner walls caressing my cock, massaging me into oblivion every damn time we're together. Her body _fits_ mine in ways I can't even describe. Must be what folks mean when they say 'we're made for each other'.

She stretches out beneath me, spreading her legs, whimpering with anticipation.

"Please, Logan…"

After what she's just done for me, God knows, she don't have to beg.

I finger her cleft, parting her and catching her clit under my thumb, giving her a little boost toward her own release. Not that she needs it, really; she'd always rather come riding my cock than my hand, but sometimes I can't resist sitting back and watching her give herself up to each new level of pleasure as I coax her body to greater and greater heights.

Tonight just became one of those nights.

My Allied Force protests the delay of its mission to storm her Normandy Beach, but I'm still in command of this chickenshit outfit and I issue a firm order to 'Stand by' while I formulate a new plan of attack.

A low growl quiets the grumbling in the ranks as I bend down to take her left nipple into my mouth, scraping it between my teeth and tongue. She clings to me, her fingernails tearing through the flesh on my shoulders. The metallic smell of my blood kicks her arousal up yet another notch and she curls herself up to lick some off my skin.

"Oh, God, Logan…I want…more…"

I almost wish I didn't heal so damn fast.

But then I realize she's not talkin' about the red stuff as she reaches down and shifts my hand so that my fingers align with her dewy entrance.

"Inside me…Now, Logan, please…touch me inside."

Damn, she's beggin' again. I have got to get with the program.

I know she's hot enough for two fingers, but she's talkin' 'more', so I go for three right off the bat—stretching her, filling her—leavin' my thumb up on her clit and my pinky stickin' out like I'm at high tea with the fuckin' Queen.

"Ahhh, yeeeesss! That's so good, soooo goooood!"

I'm guessin' there ain't a tea in the whole mothergrabbin' British Empire that ever made the Queen sing out like that.

I slide my fingers in and out a few times, slowly, keeping the same rhythm with my thumb as I rub her folds, deliberately going easy on that special bundle of nerve endings from whence all blessings flow. Some women need enormous amounts of direct stimulation there to climax, but not Marie. For her, the lighter the touch there, the better, as long as I don't let up on any of her other hot spots.

Like the one I'm arguing with myself about exploring right now. If I curl my fingertips upward just a tad, I'll land a bullseye on that spongy little miracle maker that will rocket my girl into the sexual stratosphere. But, G-spot orgasms can last a good minute or two all by themselves and that much ecstasy all in one dose tends to turn her bones to mush and her mind toward sleep. Not that she hasn't earned all the pleasure I can give her and a good nap besides. But I'm thinkin' she might just enjoy it that much more if she's wrapped up in both of my arms with my chest hair ticklin' her red, ripe nipples while my ten-inch, iron-hard dick does the work the way Nature intended.

The troops return to a state of high alert, poised to advance into her dark, damp territory.

Then again, maybe that should be her call.

"You want me to just take the edge off a little, or should I take it all the way?" I make one light swipe at her G-spot with my middle finger, just to prove that I know where it is. The touch sends a wave of pleasure through her so fierce she nearly hurls herself off the bed.

"Oh, Sweet Mother of God!" she gasps as she settles back to earth. She untangles her fingers from their white-knuckle grip on the sheets, takes my face in her hands and looks straight into my eyes.

"You leave the fuckin' edge alone, sugar. I want to live on it for a while," she croons. "A good…long…while."

OK, I admit it. She outranks me. Always has.

Which means D-Day has been pushed back for 'a good long while.'

Like I said, it's one of _those _nights.

And the beauty of it is—she thinks _she's_ the one who's died and gone to heaven…

THE END.


End file.
